


The Reign of Decay

by andysmmrs



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Again I'd just like to apologize, And generally fucked up shit in the later chapters, It's a Gothic Horror AU so basically expect a spoopy atmosphere and also some pining, Mushroom-oriented body horror to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-23 13:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andysmmrs/pseuds/andysmmrs
Summary: John Irving travels to a secluded village in the English countryside to preach to a divided parish and finds his friend George Hodgson is not the man he was six years ago.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erebites and terrors (wouldn't'a done it without y'all thank you for the inspo)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=erebites+and+terrors+%28wouldn%27t%27a+done+it+without+y%27all+thank+you+for+the+inspo%29).

> “But how nothingness invades us! We are scarcely born ere decay begins for us, in such a way that the whole of life is but one long combat with it, more and more triumphant, on its part, to the consummation, namely, death; and then the reign of decay is exclusive.” - Gustave Flaubert, Correspondance.

John Irving had always found that of all the examples of God's existence, the most evident was the overwhelming beauty of nature. How could one observe the rolling green hills of the countryside, the proud mountain ranges in the north, extending up towards their creator without sensing deep in their soul that divine design was at hand? John Irving was a man that delighted in nature, he delighted in all pure things given to him by God. And yet, as he arrived in the secluded village he would be carrying out the first years of his priesthood in, he felt a great sense of unease.

He knew it would be a strange and divided congregation he would reach, the village split equally between Catholics and Protestants, but he had hope that his lessons would be well received despite this.

It must've been the forest surrounding the village. Yes. That was it. He had passed through it on his way to the church, and it had sent his nerves in every which way. It seemed darker, somehow. Darker than any wood he had ever passed through, but he put that suggestion aside. There was no reason to be frightened of a forest, no matter how dark. And now that he had arrived, he ought to feel even more secure, as he had a friend in the village to help him feel welcome.

The friend in question was a George Hodgson, a Catholic he had become - despite everything - close acquaintances with some years ago. Their different denominations of faith had made for some of the most theologically engaging discussions Irving had ever had. Sometimes Hodgson would ask questions he knew were foolish, to annoy Irving - or perhaps it was an attempt to amuse him... In any case, the realization that he was soon to be reunited with his friend did put him at ease.

The two churches in the village stood across a narrow dirt road from each other, as if the building themselves were aware of the irony of their existence. The Catholic church was a cathedral in miniature, with a large stained glass window, and men carved into the side of it. Saints, John was sure, and he could already see George taking his time to explain every single one to him. John's church was smaller, more humble, which he appreciated, although the spire rose to be almost as high as the Catholic church's.

The door to the model cathedral swung open, and there was George. John felt overcome with affection, as if a heavy weight on his chest had lifted, and the two men embraced, the years between their last meeting seeming to melt away.

"How was your trip into town, John? Peaceful enough, I hope? Scenic, out in the country, isn't it?" George kept a hand on each of John's shoulders, even as they parted in the embrace. John gave a polite but curt nod in response and worried as soon as he did if the move had been too unnatural seeming. If George noticed, he gave no sign of it.

"Oh, yes, scenic indeed. The forest in particular was very..." he trailed off, hoping George would assist him in finding the word. When no assistance came, he relented and found a word himself, albeit a clumsy one. "ethereal". It was not what he had meant. No matter, anyway, something else had attracted his attention,

"George, are you sick?" He might have asked in a more gracious manner, but his sudden realization of his friend's appearance had shocked him.

When he had last seen George Hodgson, his friend had been a vision of perfect health. Almost cherub like, John would often think to himself, and then later admonish himself for. But the comparison was easy to make, with such large blue eyes, and wispy, curling flaxen hair. A cherub, or perhaps an owl, for the shape of his nose and the point of his small, peaky mouth. Owl or angel, George Hodgson carried a certain vigor for life with him in John's memory that it was bizarre to see him now, so contradictory to what John remembered him as.

"Sick? Why, no, John, I'm as healthy as ever. Do I seem ill?" Concern wrought itself upon his friend's face and John wished he had never mentioned it. He brushes the question off, shaking his head.

"No, not at all. Forget I said anything."

George looks as if to say he won't be doing any such thing, but decides at the last moment to take pity on his graceless friend, and silently agrees to dismiss the question entire. He instead shows John inside the church he’s to occupy, the inside being as meager as the outside. John wonders if George's room is as bare as his, and then pushes the question out of his mind. They sit together, talking more about the time they've spent apart, relief passing over John as he realizes George has not changed as much as he feared he might have.

George doesn't stay for much longer than that, though, John arrived quite late into the day, and, as George had told him, the sun set fast in this village.

_ "It slides down the sky so quick sometimes you didn't even realize it was setting until it's gone. Like water droplets on a window pane." _ George had said, smiling like it was an inside joke. John returns the smile, although he's sure he's missing the punchline.

When George does leave, back to his church, across the narrow dirt road, John is alone. He spends some time lighting candles to illuminate the empty church. He tells himself it is because the church is unfamiliar to him, and because he needs to begin to memorize the layout of his church. Not because he is afraid.

And yet when he dreams that night, he finds himself back in the forest. He can hear someone breathing. He realizes with a start that he is mistaken. Not someone, something. It sounds like it's dying, each breath a pained stutter, every inhale a groan and every exhale being caught in the back of the thing's throat. Despite its pained weakness, the force of the breathing moves the entire forest to swell and rise with a familiar swaying motion that reminds John of being at sea. No - not at sea, at home. On his mother's lap, in a rocking chair. But John knows whatever is breathing in the forest is not there to protect him. Whatever it is is ignoring him. Its focus directed towards the village. Towards the churches.

It is at this point John Irving decides the thing is evil. He tries to remember his prayers but in his dream he cannot speak. The Thing in the Forest has silenced him and it is planning its attack on God.

When John awakes, daylight is breaking, and he's covered in sweat. He gets out of bed, shaking from his dream, and prays, the words coming out of his mouth as easily as they always have. He thanks God for his protection and chides himself for allowing a nightmare to scare him so badly. As he dresses for the day, even with every inch of his room now visible to him in the morning's light, there's a voice in his head that tells him there's something he isn't seeing.


	2. To Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isaiah 53:6

The day is to be split between two efforts, one taxing to the body, and the other, to the mind. The first of these is the restoration of the church, which George is to come by at eight to assist in. The restoration includes repairing some of the pews - most of the pews, John corrects himself, from the looks of things, and lots and lots of dusting. The church sat unused for years before John had arrived, and new life was to be breathed into it. The task excited him, something to keep his mind and body busy, as both had been out of sorts since his arrival yesterday evening.

He moved all the pews to one side of the room, out of the way so he could sweep the floor. After, he dusted the altar, and polished every piece of silver he could find. While he was moving around the church, he noticed a sort of secret door, practically hidden in the wall. He had to do some prying to open it, it wasn't likely anyone had been inside for years, judging by the smell of stale air that rushed out to greet him.

He has to bring a lantern into the room to see, and the first thing his eyes land on is an organ. Smaller than the ones he had ever seen, but he had seen enough to know what it was. He rushed to it, pleased by his luck, although when he held a candle to the instrument, the pleasure was replaced with horror and disgust. Sitting atop the keys, as if intending to play, were two ghostly white hands - no, no, not hands at all - how silly of John. Plants. Some sort of fungus, he presumes.

Fungus or not, the thing is quite ugly, and John hates to see it, so he finds a cloth to use to grab it, his horror elevating when the fungus does not seem to give way to his touch, but remains firm against it, as if it were reacting to his touch. He rejects that notion. He tears it away from the organ and walks with it, holding it away from his body like it might bite him, all the way to the doors of the church, where he throws the fungus, it sails through the air before landing somewhere in a bush.

He turns back to his task, trying to shake the disgust rising in him, it was almost enough to put him off of his task, no matter how it needed to be done. It occurred to him at once that it seemed certain to be later than eight, and yet George hadn't come. John worried, remembering how sickly George seemed yesterday. He sets off across the road, knocking on the door of the church, which slowly falls ajar with a low groaning sound. He pushes the door the rest of the way open, calling to George. The church is empty, smelling faintly of frankincense but more strongly of dirt. 

“George? Are you there?” His voice is echoed back to him, which is strange to him, he hadn’t expected the room to be able to produce such a resounding echo. He doesn’t want to enter the building and he doesn’t know why. He’s never given way to feelings like this before, he tells himself it’s because it’s a papist church, although he knows that isn’t true, and he dislikes the amount of lying to himself he’s done today. It is not becoming of a Christian. A voice from behind startles him and he turns around to see George. He looks even worse than he did yesterday. 

His hair has thinned out, which was expected of George, he had been losing it since before he had met John, but it seemed this morning he had forgotten to comb it. It had grown long, too - and so fast from the length it was yesterday he was sure it had to be impossible - hanging loose from his head like delicate and wispy threads. His skin had lost all color to it, a ghastly grey-white color, and there were marks on his face, abrasions like he had been in some minor accident. Despite all of this, his eyes were bright, and his peaky mouth was curled up into a smile. 

“I’m terribly sorry if I’m late, John, I was on a walk, I often take walks in the morning. Through the forest. It clears my head.” 

“Of what?” The question was out of John’s mouth before he realized he might ask it. George doesn’t immediately respond but moves past John in the doorway as politely as he could, still knocking into him as he does so. He waits until he’s in the church to answer, keeping his voice low as if someone might hear him. 

“The nightmares.”

_ Nightmares?  _ John thought,  _ How long have they been plaguing his dreams? Shall there be more dreams for him like he had last night?  _ He’s not sure he could bear that, one night was enough for him. He feels like could still be able to hear the breathing, if he concentrated on it. 

“You might join me one of these mornings, John,” George continues, “you’re a man that appreciates nature, aren’t you?” 

Usually, but John has no great desire to entire those woods again. He doesn’t know how to say that to George, though, and it would be rude to decline an invitation, instead, he deflects.

“I’ve done most of the work, in my church. I’ve swept and cleaned things up, but quite a lot of the pews need repairing.”

“Right, of course. I’d nearly forgotten,” George’s response was somewhat absentminded. “I’ll fetch some tools and we’ll set to it.”

George sets to finding the tools, disappearing into a small side room while John finally crosses the threshold of the church. The inside is not as nearly decorative as the outside, and he wonders why George hasn’t put more time into upkeep. Catholics had a reputation of being opulent, hadn’t they? The inside of the church was almost identical to his, except the wallpaper had begun to peel at the top of the wall, and was mottled with mold in small splotches. He was no builder himself, but looking above he could see as well rot in the wood that held the church together. Perhaps it should be John that is helping George.

His friend reappears carrying a box of what he assumes are the tools, and they leave across the road, back to John’s church, which feels more like home to John, after having been to the the papist church. They spend the rest of the morning repairing the pews, John asks how they possibly could have fallen into this state of disrepair, and George responds by saying the local children would often use this building as a playhouse, as it was unoccupied. This upsets John. He makes an offhand comment about how people really ought to look after their children more. George says something that puts John’s head in a spin,

“Really now, John Irving, you’d think you’d learn holy ground is a myth. Life and death exist wherever they please, taboos be damned.” He smirks, and John is shocked into silence. He can’t find the strength to be scandalized, George hadn’t even sounded like himself when he said it, and then, to hammer in another nail, George adds, 

“Especially death. Death, and decay.”

They finish the task in near silence, George begins to hum every now and then, songs John has never heard before but every time John thinks to ask him about it, George stops, and John figures it’d be pointless to ask. Besides that, George really had unnerved him. There was a certain cruelty to his tone that he had never heard from George before, it made John feel like a small child being scolded for naivety, mocked, even. George leaves and John is regretful to feel a sense of relief at his friend’s departure, but things really had begun to get suffocating. 

With the rest of the day left to himself, John tries to compose a sermon. For the life of him, he cannot think of what to say, still mulling over George’s words. It’s late into the evening until he figures what he shall preach about. Clearly, his dearest friend was experiencing some sort of decline in faith. John knew that could happen to men at times, even someone as pious and wonderful as George, denomination be damn- or, or rather, forgotten. George believed in God, John was sure of that, and in the hopes that George attending his first service, John wrote a sermon with his friend in mind.


End file.
